


This Place was a Shelter

by ofbees



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Winterlock, arguing idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:10:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2423210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofbees/pseuds/ofbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a case takes them to the vast, frozen landscape of the Arctic, an irritable Sherlock and John happen upon an empty cabin, taking shelter from a storm. John wonders how far he can push Sherlock before he snaps, and what he discovers is something quite…… unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Place was a Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> **Work may contain minor changes from the original**
> 
> The album 'For Now I Am Winter' by Ólafur Arnalds was listened to on repeat while writing this piece.
> 
> “We have not long to love.  
> Light does not stay.  
> The tender things are those  
> we fold away." - Tennessee Williams

                                                                                                      ❅ ❅ ❅

John Watson had snow in his boots. He was shuddering, iced over, scowling into the stark white distance, and he had snow in his boots.

It wasn’t melting.

"Sherlock," he croaked, tugging his collar tighter. Blood soaked ice like a sheet of crimson diamonds.

"Sherlock?"

"Working." It was blunt, colder than the tundra they were in. John huffed a cloud of warm breath, shifted his feet. Sherlock continued to test the ice, digging into patches with a metallic  _shuck, shuck, shuck_. 

"I can’t feel my bloody feet," John said loudly. "I think I’ve lost them. They’ve been put to death. Sherlock my feet have  _died_. Little help?”

"They are numb," Sherlock said after a beat. "Some lukewarm water and you will scream in agony here catch this."

With a start, John caught the evidence bag of chipped stone and blood. Why Sherlock had continued this case, dragging them both to the very ends of the earth (literally) was beyond him. 

A small, icy wind had picked up. John jumped up and down, then winced when a shot of pins and needles shot through his leg. Well at least he had some feeling.

"It’s cold," he said through clenched teeth. 

"Yes."

"Very cold."

 _Shuck shuck_. “Mmm.”

"Sherlock. Would you hurry up? I can’t feel my bal-"

"John!" Sherlock had spun upward so fast he slid, momentarily losing his footing. John pressed his lips together and tried hard not to laugh.

"Sorry," he muttered, admiring the delightful pink flush in Sherlock’s pale complexion. He was obviously trapped, tangled in his web of harsh observation, and John could only sympathise given their circumstance. He needed this case solved. Complete.

"Would you like another scarf?" John asked in an attempt at being helpful.

Sherlock blinked and his face fell slightly. 

"No," he said, then as an afterthought. "Thank you."

John raised his eyebrows. It was the most amiable thing he’d said since they had begun. For the most part, days spent in a frozen waste of snow and ice would grate on both men, nerves cut down fine and dangerously sharp. It was pure luck if they didn’t leave the confines of their tent without slicing each other. John began to think, perhaps a bit hopefully, that Sherlock may have turned a corner, only the next words he said were, “Get off. You’re on my crime grid.”

He then proceeded to lightly shove John’s chest, pushing him off a patch of ground he was squinting at intently. Arms whirling, John came to an ungraceful stop, knees turned in and one arm bent behind his head. 

"Bloody fuck Sherlock, really?!"

Sherlock had dropped to his knees and was shucking again. John had an urge to compact a dense snow ball and slam it on his stupid curly head. 

"Right," John said to the open, aching blue of the sky. "I’m going to my tent. Leave you to your deductions or whatever the hell it is your doing."

Sherlock completely ignored him. Dick. Why oh why did John follow this man ridiculous places? And why was it still so surprising? This complete lack of tact and natural human etiquette.

As John trudged back to the tent, he heard a distinct, yet very small command.

"Bring back some more bags."

"No!" John called back. 

"And a petri dish!"

"Sod off."

"This is  _important_  John,” and now pretty close to screaming, “I need THEM. NOW. BRING THEM.”

John, with a guttural growl of discontent, did as he was told. 

"So help me," he said as he set the items down next to Sherlock with dramatic lightness. "I will wake in the dead of night and set your tent on  _fire_.”

“ **My**  tent is also  **your**  tent,” Sherlock said blandly. “Yours blew away, remember? The storm-“

"I remember you infuriating bastard now shut up and do things."

Rapid fire and venomous, John spat the words and then turned, on quick heel, back to the tent where it was only half a degree warmer than the sub-zero temperatures outside.

                                                                                                    ❅ ❅ ❅

 

"My tea is cold," said Sherlock Holmes, deadpan.

John looked at him a moment, unblinking, and took a sip of his own tepid liquid. 

"John, how do I heat my tea?"

"Why don’t you sit on it?"

The look Sherlock flashed him was so sharp John could feel it like splintered glass beneath his flesh. Piercing and heated. Besides the anger, there was something almost erotic about it, how close and deeply he glared at him. 

John’s face flashed hot. He looked down. 

_What the hell?_

"You haven’t said the magic word," John said. Anything to diffuse the tension.

"Magic word?" Sherlock scoffed. "Come now, John. We aren’t children."

"Well, I know  _I’m_  not.”

Sherlock was seething. John smiled despite himself, finished his drink and pushed back into his sleeping bag. Indeed an evil act, annoying Sherlock Holmes was akin to poking a snake with a stick. You were bound to get bitten, yet there was something thrilling about not knowing when. 

"In fact," John mused, "You never say the magic word. I don’t think, in all the time I’ve known you, that you have ever once said the word ‘please’ when asking me for something, or to do something for you. Although you might have, I probably wasn’t listening though. I do have the tendency to zone out when you start rambling."

Flicking at the bunsen burner, Sherlock looked up through his mess of dark curls, speculative. 

"Everyone wonders how I put up with your… nonsense. I like you, I suppose."

"Really,"

"I like pissing you off," John smirked. "And you piss me off to no end. But, I like you. Greg is right, you are a good man, a very good man. Your temper needs work, though."

"My temper… oh? Enlighten me again, how does my ‘temper’ effect you in any way?"

John couldn’t stop his shrill laugh. “How does it not effect me? This trip, this fucking wild goose chase of a murder that real policeman should be handling. Here I thought, “The coldest place on Earth, and with the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes, it could be an adventure!” More a trek to the frozen depths of hell with a madman and his petri dishes.”

"This case," Sherlock stopped trying to light the burner, steepled his fingers under his scarf clad chin. "This case is the most in-depth and absorbing case of my work to date. Homicide surrounded by snow may not be ideal, but it is necessary."

"Sherlock, my arse is a block of ice. It’s a miracle I can stand up-"

"Don’t interrupt. What I am trying to make you realise is, such an intricate and vast trial this murderer has left, it’s unique, fascinating beyond compare. You’re here because I needed your help. If you want to leave, leave."

He was so calm. Every feature lined with truth and reason.  _Now who’s the child_ , John thought. 

For a moment it was plausible that he should go, leaving Sherlock to his own devices to analyse and no, no, he would probably fall over and hurt himself. Sherlock, eyes opaque sapphire in the dim light, waited. 

"I want to help," John sighed. "Just… God, I don’t know. Be nice." 

"I make no such promises,"

"Of course not."

John rubbed his heavy eyes, watching as Sherlock, brows knitted, continued with the task of heating his tea over an empty flame. A small flick, and John produced a lighter from his jacket pocket. 

"Say please,"

Unimpressed scowling. “…Please.”

"There, not so difficult, hm?" John lit the burner, warming his gloved hands as Sherlock heated first his tea, then a beaker of what looked like water and, congealed blood. Oh good. 

"Can’t you do that later?"

"We discussed this," Sherlock stirred the thick, lumpy substance. "I must determine the rate of decay, if narcotics were present. It’s quite involved, John,"

"I don’t want the tent reeking of a dead person when I’m trying to sleep."

"Then try not to breathe,"

"Sarcasm doesn’t suit you," although John knew that wasn’t even remotely true, sarcasm was to Sherlock what legs were to a chair.  

The tent cast a blueish hue in the contour of his cheekbones. Sherlock took his teaspoon, turned it around and used the end to stir a powder into the dark red liquid.

"As your doctor," John said, stern. "I strongly advise not doing that."

The muscles in Sherlock’s jaw tensed. “Quiet.”

"Sherlock, that’s really-"

"Running commentary." 

Barely ten minutes passed, and whether or not Sherlock found what he needed, the primary source of warmth was suddenly and irrevocably extinguished. 

"We were using that burner for food, Sherlock. Stuff your bleeding experiments, that was our fire, and you  _put it out._ ”

"I didn’t put it out, it went out." 

"I told you to wait until morning,  _after_  we had breakfast!”

Civility didn’t last long.

"Perhaps you should have stayed in Baker Street," Sherlock scowled. "If it’s so very dull and cold, even with all your extensive layering."

"I have to do  _something_  to keep my heart rate up.”

"Yes, and I suppose your late night wank isn’t really working for you, is it?"

John gaped. That was really out of line. “How I keep warm is none of your bloody business!”

Fuming, John pushed back his blankets and reached for his snow boots, still damp from earlier. He had to get out. Being trapped this close to one another was going to get one of them killed.

It was a victory of sorts to see the flicker of shock pass Sherlock’s face. “What are you doing?”

"Taking a walk," with fatigued strain the boots finally went on. "And it  **is**  cold, it’s fucking freezing!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and with deliberate coolness, said “Obviously. We’re. In. The. Arctic.”

"I  _KNOW_.” John shouted, and was gone.

It was horrifyingly cold, more than John had anticipated. Away from the warmth of his blankets, and the human warmth cast from Sherlock, his lungs snapped frozen and he began to immediately wrack with tremors.

Crunching across the snow and down a slight embankment, John glanced back to keep the roof of the tent in view. It was well past midnight, and gold sunlight was just starting to spill over the horizon.

"Fantastic," John said bleakly. With an angry slump, he fell into a dense patch of snow and watched as the sun crested faraway hills. Slowly, he felt the sunlight touching soft upon his skin like a kiss.

He was a fool to consider that sarcastic-prick-of-a-detective would come out here and get him, usher him inside with apologies and gentle hands.  

The wind grew stronger. It lifted turrets of snow to cover the area where John sat, and he could feel the beginnings of hot tendrils run up his arms, from numb to burning within seconds. He knew, as a medical man, what was happening.

Yet there he sat, the sun like an old friend, blankets of snow powder soft and quite without warning, he was asleep.

 

                                                                                                      ❅ ❅ ❅

 

The landscape of ice cracked beneath them. Hands, whispers of a name, an endless tugging as John was pulled from the earth into the cutting breeze.

"John!" It sounded distant, an echo of the mountains. Gentle lips at his ear and arms forcing him to stand.

Violently, the cold struck. John was gasping, he couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t breathe! So much ice…  
It was half drag, half run. Somewhere a door appeared beyond the sleet and both men tumbled inside with a yell. John lay on the wooden floor, trembling, caved in on himself. 

"-Nearly died! Why the bloody hell would… and I couldn’t find you… so terrified… John." The words were clipped, barely heard over the sound of thunder in the walls.

Shaking, arms made of stone, of mercury, John pushed up into standing with tremendous effort. A soliders will. Long fingers wrapped about his bicep, and he was forced into a sudden powerful hug. 

"Schmerlock?" he mumbled into the coat. "Can’t breathe."

"You need warmth, the fire would shock your system." Sherlock pulled him tighter, squeezing the very life from him. "Yes, I read your survival handbook. I was bored, and it proved rather useful."

With a weak shove, he stood back. 

"It feels like ten steel vices wrapped about my rib cage," John rasped. "I hardly need another."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes huge and concerned, helpless. 

"Human warmth can cure mild hypothermia," he said in a small voice.

"Doesn’t feel mild," John tugged at his ice soaked sleeves. "Only works, if you’re closer, to skin."

Eyelids fluttering, the light bulb burst over Sherlock’s head, and suddenly John felt clothes being torn away from his body. Sherlock hesitated at the last shirt, then, a sudden flush of warmth as he unbuttoned his coat and pressed John against him, only two thin layers between them.

John tensed. It was wonderful, the heat, like fresh blood poured into his veins, yet it was strange and unnatural being in Sherlock’s sturdy embrace. He struggled to no avail.

"I’m trying to get your pulse running," Sherlock huffed.

 _No problems there_ , thought John sourly.

"You need to relax. Your muscles are wound against the thing saving your life."

"Fine."

He unwound, slowly, letting the warmth collapse his bones, seeping honey across his chest. Sherlock drew him closer, running a hand across his back in comforting circles. John’s head was heavy and it fell into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. It was… rather pleasant. He hadn’t been this close to a person in weeks now, and Sherlock caressing his shoulder blade was an antidote, a type of melting. 

"That’s better," Sherlock hummed. John sunk with the deep cadence of his voice. After a time, Sherlock drew his coat around his shoulders and eased him into the room. A dark cabin with benches, a couch. It was close to empty. There was a low mattress, covered with blankets and pillows by the stone fireplace. John had started shaking the instant Sherlock had moved away.

"I’ve made a fire, only small." Sherlock helped him down onto the makeshift bed. "I’ll be on the couch if you need-"

"W-wait," John grabbed his sleeve. "I s-s-still need, to adjust. It’s too cold, to be separate." 

Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it again. He was obviously mulling it over. Pros and cons. Not that, in terms of survival, there should even be cons. 

"What do you suggest?" he said finally.

John sighed, then froze, self conscious.

"Urm. Could you… lie here, next to me for a while? Until I get back a normal body temperature."

Deftly, he sat, awaiting John’s instructions. He was listening, actually listening, amazing, and the thrill sparked and settled in John’s belly as he tugged off his shirt in one motion. 

John said, “Body heat. Nothing more.”

"Alright." 

A severed boundary. Sherlock placed his shirt next to John’s, reached over to bury them both in sheets, with John fully aware what this looked like, and he jumped when his icy skin touched the bare warmth of Sherlock’s back. 

"Sorry."

"It’s alright. You’ll be warm soon enough."

Only the wind could convince John he was still this side of reality. 

                                                                                                            ❅ ❅ ❅

 

He woke with a gasp. John was deaf, he had to be.

The silence was horrifying, stillness like an enormous, incredible weight pressing down. Or perhaps it was Sherlock, ungainly sprawled across the entire mattress, including John. He resisted the inane urge to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s broad shoulders and stay there forever.

There was a dull throbbing at the base of John’s skull as he attempted to move. With barely one arm free, Sherlock suddenly wound himself closer, nuzzling into the pocket where neck connects shoulder and  _christ_  if that didn’t make John shiver.

”Mmm…” Sherlock sighed so contentedly that John forgot his escape plan altogether. Instead, allowing himself to relax a little, he placed a free hand at the nape of his friend’s neck, tracing soft patterns.

When Sherlock had asked to accompany him to this god-awful place, it was with spare emotion, yet John knew that acting cold and aloof was precisely how Sherlock kept a lid on his most consuming of passions. By the time they arrived, he was leaping about in a fit of nervous energy. Coats tails a-furl as he sprinted out across a slab of ice. Absolutely ridiculous.

Under normal circumstances John would have pushed Sherlock off him by now, and he wondered, absentmindedly, if the feeling of their breaths rising and falling together was meant to feel this good. Honestly, he didn’t care. He was just happy to be safe and warm indoors.

And then he caught sight of the window. 

A thin strip of daylight peaked in through an opening, under which was snow. Lots of snow.

”Oh no,” John felt the blood leave his face. “Uhhh, Sherlock? Sherlock!”

”Mmph, what?”

 John began to sit up, only to find that Sherlock’s slender leg was draped across him, his own underneath. They were well entwined. 

”Sherlock, you… Sherlock get off me! Look.” 

”Gods sake, John, wha-” Sherlock sat up, blinking as he looked first at John - realised he’d been asleep atop him - and then glanced toward where he was pointing. His features crumpled in confusion. 

John whispered, “It’s snow.”

The sudden absence of sound should have warned him. John could sense it now, the pressure, that sensation of being trapped on all sides beneath seven feet of snow.

Sherlock untangled himself from both John and the blankets, his attention fully on the window, good thing too, for John was blushing like a grapefruit.

“Ah,” Sherlock peered up through the gap, possibly trying to gauge how deep they were buried and how long a rescue would take. “Well, that’s annoying.”

John raised both eyebrows, incredulous.

"Quite marvellous, though" Sherlock continued, moving to test the doorframe. "I’ve never experienced this degree of snow before. Perhaps this is what happened to our victim on the ice plane, buried, lost."

Sherlock had just woken up and already John could hear the great mechanism of his mind begin to whir anew. The door made an alarming crack, and Sherlock pulled back his hand. 

"We’re trapped then," John said, and Sherlock, with hands on hips, staring at his feet, was the only answer he required. "Great. Okay. Where are we then?"

"Not a clue," 

"We have to be  _somewhere_.”

"A lodge, most likely," Sherlock deduced, picking up a beaker from a nearby bench. "Its primary use is for excavation. Scientists don’t use it this time of year."

John smirked. “And why not?”

Sherlock lifted a shoulder, nonchalant. “Because of snow-ins.”

"BECAUSE OF FUCKING SNOW-INS!" John all but yelled. He ignored the flicker of surprise on Sherlock’s face, falling back with a dull thud to stare at the ceiling. Trapped in a lodge, the fire nearly dead as he watched Sherlock step back to observe the height of the room, bare shoulders angled strong and inviting. 

Oh god, he was delirious. What he could really do with was some fresh air, or a nice hearty steak, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

“You dragged us in here, now get us out.” John spat. His head was pounding. There were red slashes pulsing across his vision.

"This seems a little beyond my realm of expertise," Sherlock said tiredly, stooping to pick up his shirt and jacket, and John pulled the blanket around himself at the sudden chill. 

There was a moment of silence, as Sherlock stood bundled in three jackets, staring at the window whilst tapping his chin in thought.

A small pit had formed in John’s stomach.

“How- how did you find me?” he asked finally.

“Process of elimination.”

“What?”

He took a breath to explain, and John held up a hand. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter, I just- thanks. Thank you.”

“Of course,”

John smiled, and then jumped out of his skin when Sherlock exclaimed, “Of course! Of  _course_ , yes, why didn’t I  _see_ that?”

He was the other side of the cabin, searching furiously for a scrap of paper amongst the many drawers lining the wall. Typical. The minute John starts to think that he’s being listened to, or even the tiniest bit appreciated, Sherlock is bustling about talking to himself.

He used to find it endearing, now it was just maddening.

“The man didn’t run,” Sherlock was saying. “No, they never run. This man was gutted, like a fish, and then hurled across the ice at speed. The murderer was looking for the precise place. Ice thin enough to carve a hole into, just big enough for a body, and just slight enough not to be easily seen.”

John willed his aching limbs forward to stoke the near-dead fire.

“A shame it had to happen so far outside of London. Regardless, we have our man!”

“Okay,” John wriggled beneath the covers, closing his eyes at the sound of Sherlock’s rolling baritone, waves over stone, a far off thunder. Avalanches.

 

                                                                                                      ❅ ❅ ❅

 

John.

A cold fire pulled apart the sky, peeling back the sunlight to reveal diamonds, clusters imbedded in silk.

_John?_

Eyes the colour of jade, of oceans.

**BURNING.**

“Ah!” John started, his skin on fire where ice had touched it. “What the fucking fuck Sherlock?”

“Language.” Sherlock picked up the small shard, flicked it into the now dying flames. “Also “fucking fuck” is not particularly elegant. Do try harder.”

“Please stop talking like your brother,” John said as he rubbed his face. Sherlock had turned a funny shade of red.

“Do not. Compare me. To Mycroft.”

John simply rolled his eyes. “Fine, don’t you throw ice on me.”

“You were dreaming. It was distracting.” A bucket full of what appeared to be sleet and snow was lifted away onto a bench. Bastard. He would have thrown the whole thing if John hadn’t woken up.

“Dreaming?” John said as he tugged on a wool sweater. “How was my dreaming effecting your- whatever the hell it is you’re doing?”

There was strewn paper and random pieces of science equipment everywhere. Clearly, Sherlock knew of this place beforehand. He probably even knew the snowstorm had been forecast.

“Sleep talking, or in your case, muttering, is common of ex-military men,” Sherlock said as he reached for a log of wood for the fire. “Thought you’d seen enough, from what you were saying. And I need to concentrate.”

“On what.”

“Getting us out.”

“You mean, you’ve solved the case?”

“Oh that? Hours ago. There’s still daylight from what I can tell, I need to create a simple melting formula, preferably something that won’t get us killed.”

John stood, waiting. Sherlock continued to mix brandy and other strange looking liquids into a mixing bowl, completely oblivious.

“Right. So. Anything I can do to help?”

“Stand over there. You’re blocking my light source.”

 _Thought I_ was _your light source,_ John frowned sourly. 

While Sherlock sat bent over his work, John glanced over the makeshift kitchen, hands on hips. Most cupboards were empty, save a few empty crisp packets, but eventually he found something semi-workable; a tin of beans, another of corn, and something that could possibly pass for tuna.

"I have no idea what I’m doing," he grumbled. "But it’ll do."

Sherlock was silent, brow furrowed. Stressed? Most definitely. He would need to eat something.

Once John had finished preparing beans-on-corn-with-maybetuna, he passed Sherlock a plate, who rather oddly, ate with one hand and continued his experiment with the other.

"Any good?" John asked, curious.

"Mmm." Was the only response.

                                                                                                        ❅ ❅ ❅

 

Time passed glacially. Pacing would only infuriate Sherlock further, so John settled for shucking at the snow packed door. Trying to find the light, he instead only succeeded in digging a tunnel.

"John." The voice was seething, breathless. When he turned, Sherlock was looming over him, hair plastered to his forehead, breath shallow. "I said I had it under control."

"I was just trying to keep busy," John said, shaking his frozen hands as he wondered where his gloves had gotten to.

"Well  _stop it_.” Sherlock was practically livid. Not that John blamed him, it had been hours inside this small space, the fire was nothing but glimmering embers, and the light outside was almost certainly decaying. With limited resources, each man was beginning to feel the slice of steel in their veins, the chill creeping further, muscle and bone pulled in a painful embrace.

Worse still, Sherlock’s attempts at ice-melting were getting nowhere. They were stranded here.

"I was trying to help-"

"You aren’t helping, you’re hindering! And you’re driving me crazy with all that mumbling."

"Oh, well, now you know what it’s like being around  _you_  all the time!”

"Step. Away. From the door." 

John straightened, breathing laboured from his futile escape. He licked his lips, shaking his head once. “No.”

Sherlock stepped closer. They’d been sparring on-and-off for the last six hours, John could feel the tremor of a line being crossed, something splitting this fragile facade, like a crack across glass. 

"That meal was terrible," Sherlock seethed.

"Your experiment is useless."

"You look stupid in that hat."

"You’re really quite bad at this, you know that?"

"I shouldn’t have brought you here," eyes shadowed, Sherlock was speaking almost in a whisper. "You get in the way, you always have, and not only this case but our survival has been compromised because of you, you  _should not be here_.” 

John flinched. Only the small flex in Sherlock’s jaw gave him away, but it still left salted wounds on John’s skin. 

Sherlock moved to close the door. 

John snatched his free hand. “Don’t. Test. Me.”

Suddenly Sherlock had him pinned, hands to the wall either side of his head.

"Touch me again and I won’t hesitate to beat you senseless." 

John only smirked. “You wouldn’t dare-“

"Try me."

Stuck, John decided his best bet was to knee him in the groin. But he didn’t want to initiate a boxing match, not when the closest surgery was twenty metres above snow level.

No, he needed a shock tactic, something unusual that would stun Sherlock into releasing him, maybe even letting him alone for a while. 

John kissed him hard and full on the lips. Sherlock didn’t move. To his horror, John found, after he’d pulled back to stare down his opponent, that kissing Sherlock had actually felt good, fantastically good, in fact.

Sherlock stared at him cross-eyed. His hold did not lessen. 

"Let. Go." John growled.

The grip on his hands tightened, and Sherlock leaned in close. “No.”

Deep breath, and John kissed him again with an animal intensity, pushing him off balance, yet he didn’t let up. John drew back, panting. 

Sherlock grinned savagely. 

And then his lips were against John’s moving in a wet, deliberate motion that made his head swim. John returned it tenfold, lightly biting his full lower lip, running his tongue along the seam, and grunted when they parted. Sherlock laced their fingers together, squeezed. 

It was quite unlike kissing a woman, their lips all paper soft and pliant. Sherlock’s mouth was lush, but it was the force, the hunger, the brute strength of both men competing for purchase that was sending shocks up John’s spine. It was in his nature to have control. Sherlock was denying him of it, totally. God the things John wanted to do…

Everything suddenly narrowed to a fixed point when Sherlock pressed the length of his body against him. Heat crashed in waves, the unexpected loss of mind causing John to cant his hips forward until he felt— oh.

"Oh," he breathed. Sherlock, face flushed beneath his dark shock of hair, looked down, a hint of realisation in his raised eyebrows. Well. That was new.

"Um."

"Sherlock?"

"Um…"

"Are you…?"

He didn’t answer. Instead he ground against John, testing, careful observation, and John pressed his lips into a thin line to keep from responding when Sherlock, rock hard through his trousers, pressed into John’s equally as strained groin.

Sherlock looked at him fixedly, pupils blown wide. Jesus. It had no right to feel that good.

John had no idea why he said his next words “Do that again.”

Hips sliding over hips, Sherlock’s jaw went slack and when he moaned, heat cascading down John’s throat, everything exploded. There were bursts of pleasure running through every muscle, in every sinew. Pull and push.

“God, I want you,” Sherlock seethed. “Want you, oh-“

“Shut up and snog me, you arrogant prick.”

Sherlock licked into his mouth, lust a sort of painful madness. John grabbed his arse, guiding the motions in all the right places, wondering why it had taken them so long, how good Sherlock tasted, the way he knew how to lick  _just there_. 

John’s breath caught. A sudden collapse in tension, an unwinding of strings, and Sherlock was pliant against him, lips a soft warm searching upon his own. It was agonisingly brief, but the way Sherlock sighed into John was part unsure, part wanton ache. He  _groaned_.

And then the tension snapped and Sherlock pulled back, as if stung.

John couldn’t quite contain his defiant grin. That had felt.

_Fucking hell._

“You’re good at that,” John murmured. One hand was still gripping a lapel on Sherlock’s shirt, and the pulse hammering in his throat was gorgeous.

Sherlock blinked, stupefied. “Good at what, precisely?”

“At… being vulnerable.” John didn’t know why he’d said that, except, it was plainly true.

The flush of colour accentuating the high cheekbones, jaw slack with confusion and lust, was something John had only ever seen from around an angle, the corner of his vision, just out of sight and then the bastard would stand straight and look smug. No feeling. No outward display of affection.   
Yet there it was, clear, crystalline perfection, Sherlock Holmes was human and he’d deliberately been hiding this, concealing his love…

“Oh my god.” John cut his thought dead.

“What? John, stop staring at me like that.” Sherlock took a small step backward, and John let go. Those walls had not been fully replaced. There was still an edge, a hope.

“You love me, don’t you?” Point blank.

“Well. Of course, you’re my best friend.” Sherlock said, as if John should have picked up on that immediately.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” stepping closer, the heat of something too big to name burning an inferno between them, “You’re, in love, with me, aren’t you Sherlock?”

“Do not be,” Sherlock barked, and then faltering, “… ridiculous.”

With a careful motion, John took Sherlock’s hand, squeezed.

“I’m so sorry. You’re a fucking burke, why didn’t I see this? I did see it. I never pay attention to these ‘feel-y’ things.”

Still rigid and unmoving, Sherlock was deducing him, looking hard so as not to miss the key element.

“Sherlock I love you, as a friend. But I’ve always had this, erm…” John lifted the elegant hand, gently running his lips across the pale knuckles. Sherlock didn’t stop him.

“I love you, you’re my best friend, and… I love you, more. Always more. Fuck, I am not good with words-“

“Don’t.” Sherlock wound his fingers through John’s, breath shaky. “We don’t need words. Unless, you want words.”

John shook his head fast. “No. Nope.”

The smirk Sherlock gave him was devilish. “Then let's continue, shall we? I believe you were proving a point?”

Ah yes.

Right.

John grabbed Sherlock by the nape and forced their mouths together. Sherlock was smiling into the kiss somewhat, but still unresponsive. Very slightly, John leant back, whispering harshly, “You’re a bastard. I want your vulnerability. I want  _you_ , Sherlock.”

That did it. The  _I want_ broke something, only small, but it began to unravel and within minutes Sherlock had hands in John’s hair and over his back and  _oh Christ he was gripping his arse really tightly._  

John basked in the sensation. Sherlock wanted him, his whole body slack and yet demanding. Both men were vying for control, John licked into Sherlock’s mouth, bit hard on his full lower lip. A waterfall of feeling rippled down his spine when Sherlock moaned, devouring him, and John was uncomfortably hard when their hips clashed.

Sherlock forced John’s head back, sucking at the tendons in his neck.

“John,” sharp breath. “John…”

He would never be tired of this, John thought, when he kissed this man there would always be the same pull, the same heat, incredible.   
The eyes, full of a love so deep and palpable, were watching through the half-light. Stupid really, but John almost felt like crying. Here was someone who would never take a second they spent together for granted, would risk his whole life to save his, and was currently rolling his hips like a wave against John, his eyes heavy.

 _Fuck._  If it wasn’t for years of self-control, John would be done, finished. The friction was just so. How did he know how to do that? 

“Right there,” John said aloud, gasping. “Oh, right there, harder, that’s so good, oh fu…”

Sherlock had him pressed into the wall. He was shaking. 

John sucked and gnawed at Sherlock’s elegant throat, causing him to let slip a sex-starved groan.

“I want this,” Sherlock sighed, holding back his anger at the way his body was betraying him. “I want, everything. “

The need for contact was suddenly brutal. John was tearing at his shirt, struggling through the layers, full delicious kissing never breaking, not once. Long fingers were against him, helping, pulling, and then one was undressing the other, hurriedly, a race to beat.

 Once his hands had found that slim waist, John hesitated. First the belt, the fly, then slowly…

Sherlock fell sideways, throwing out a hand to hold him up against the wall, leaning over John as a strange expression tightened his features.

“Sorry,” John said, sheepish. “Too fast?”

“God, no.” Sherlock’s voice had impossibly dropped in register. Baritone of honey slid through John’s mind like silk. He could already hear that voice, gravelly and panting in his ear.  _John, John, John!_

“Bed. Now!”

Limbs flung wild as John forced them both across the narrow space and down upon the makeshift mattress. He wanted slow aches, all the sounds, the light touches as they finally,  _finally_  found each other, after all this time.

And yet, “Fuck it, I want you now.”

“John Watson,” Sherlock was breathless, sprawled beneath him. “Was that an order?”

“Well,” John shrugged. “I’ve always liked taking orders more than giving them-  _woah_. That was, uh, okay, never mind enough talk.”

Sherlock stared at him, blinking, shock of dark hair a beautiful, tangled mess.

The walls shuddered as the wind forced more snow against the wood paneling. A small spot of warmth remained beside them, the fire seeming to shy away as John nuzzled into the pocket where neck connects shoulder, Sherlock carefully holding him, afraid of how fragile this moment was.  John worked his way down his chest, watching Sherlock deduce him– eyes round.

“Christ,” John breathed. “I’m going to make you plead for this. Practically beg.”

“I highly doubt it,” Sherlock hissed, yet beneath his smirk, John could taste the shear, undeniable want in him.

John caught a nipple in his teeth, and he admired the sound Sherlock made, low in his throat, back arching as John slid a hand between them. After all this time, this is what had kept them going, through long showers and sleepless nights. And John didn’t care what currently possessed him, because they were so  _close_.

“Never underestimate me,” John said.

“Never have.” Sherlock placed a hand against his cheek; thumb tracing the line of his jaw. Hesitating, John studied his shoulder line, suddenly unsure. As if he knew, Sherlock guided John back to his lips, the wind howling as they devoured one another.

“The things I’ve wanted to do to your trousers,” John was saying as he forced open his fly. “Your pristine trousers and perfect suits, so well dressed, how I’d like to rip them to pieces.”

Plunging his hand into Sherlock’s pants, he felt a little buck of movement, and his legs spread wider, allowing John easier cupping access.

“You want to ruin my clothes?” Sherlock breathed darkly.

“I would  _ravage_  them,”

Sherlock bit his ear, ran his tongue along the inner shell. “Well then.  _Do your worst_.”

It was shockingly real and warm and amazing when they pressed against each other, nothing to separate them, skin upon gorgeous soft skin. John’s mind was in tatters, exploding colour and sound, blue-green eyes cataloguing every inch of him, and Sherlock was smiling, laughing, the way he bit his lower lip sending ripples of desire through John’s belly.   
Sherlock sat upright, one arm holding John close as he sucked bruises onto his chest, John rearing his hips in search of friction. When Sherlock tried to top him, John grinned, squeezing his thighs and pushing back until Sherlock hit the pillow.

“Stay,” he commanded.

Sherlock chuckled, and was met with an evil smirk as John ran his hands through that familiar mop of hair, kissing in hop skips to lick Sherlock’s navel, sliding his briefs down with deliberate slowness and-

 **“Oh!”**  Sherlock gasped as John’s mouth closed around him. He sucked and pulled, pausing to run his tongue in circles across the head. John swallowed him down to the base, gently caressing every tender crevice. Sighing, Sherlock let his eyes fold closed.

“John. Gorgeous. Ah!” He jerked and John gripped him, pulling harder, deeper, unaware of the sounds he was making in response to Sherlock panting. John could feel his own precome wet against his leg.

 _Gorgeous,_  John could taste sweat and skin, could feel every tremor as Sherlock unravelled before him, head thrown back and luscious with moans.

It was too much, sensations cresting atop one another.

“J-John, I’m going to, fuck. I want-“

John gave him a final once over, and then smothered his words with a kiss. Sherlock took his slick cock in a strong fist and began to tug.

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock.” Was all John could say before taking Sherlock in hand, stroking furiously, the angle wrong but the pressure heavenly, and he thrust his hips into Sherlock’s fist.

“John. Oh. Please.”

Their cries drowned out the wind, Sherlock stalling his rhythm, suspended, before coming in ribbons across John’s moving hand. John was close behind, the sight of Sherlock in an unimaginable state of ecstasy pushing him over the edge. Those long fingers, lustful breath repeating his name, John’s own cock slick with Sherlock’s come…

“Yes, oh fuck—!” John shouted, everything static, white noise, before half collapsing atop Sherlock as his muscles gave out.

A moment of deep quiet, shivering in bliss as Sherlock whispered  _incredible, I’ve got you, here._  

John’s heartbeat began to slow, and he felt the chill crawl into the place where they joined. His wrist weak from the comedown, Sherlock ungracefully pulled the duvet over them both, cocooning John in his arms, unwilling to move further.

“Wow,” John said finally.

“Wow is quite an understatement,” Sherlock turned John onto his side; brushing light kisses on his burning skin. John didn’t fight it; instead, he let himself be consumed. Surrender.

It was the only thought to exist in those few seconds, how much he adored Sherlock, how much he loved his brilliant mind, his body and his heart and the things they turned him into.

Sherlock stretched to find a towel, anything, to unglue them. John helped, and Sherlock grunted with pleasure when he met a tender spot.

“You are…” John swallowed, trying to gauge his reaction. “Fantastic.”

Sherlock’s lip quirked. He looked down, voice small. “Thank you.”

John knew he wasn’t referring to simple flattery, but to everything, the build up of harshness between them, and the (more than unexpected) release. Sherlock’s hair was a disaster, neck raw with kisses and face flush, and he had never looked so beautiful. Leaning to cradle his face in both hands, John kissed his swollen lips gently.

“You’re welcome, idiot.”

                                                                                                        ❅ ❅ ❅

 

Sound was dulled, snow caving around the cabin. A shirtless Sherlock was stoking the fire with flicks of brandy, smiling to himself.

“I knew this awful concoction would somehow prove useful.”

“To be honest,” John yawned. “I prefer body heat to any warmth that fire gives out. You are a human furnace, and I’d like you back here. That’s an order.”

Grinning, Sherlock sidled over to the snow-packed door, chipping ice into two beakers - now brandy glasses - before sauntering back to bury himself between the sheets, draping a leg across John’s lap.

Pursing his lips, John took the glass, sipping at the cool liquid and hoping it would sedate the nerves sparking in his stomach. Butterflies, perhaps.

“We’re going to die out here, aren’t we?” John wondered, squinting into the pitch-black cabin.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Probably.”

“Probably?! That’s not comforting, Sherlock.”

“Alright. How about this?” John  _mmm_ -ed as fingers ghosted across his groin, massaging. A tiny part of his brain was circling around the idea that he’d wanted to do this for a long time. He was, at the very least, bisexual.

 _Very bisexual_ , John thought as he grasped the perfect swell of Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock jumped when John touched ice to his chest, bowing his head to suck the heat back in.

“This is madness,”

“It’s biology,” Sherlock said, chewing his ear. “And seeing as there are no cases to distract us, I plan on taking full advantage.”

Liquor spilled across the floor as the men entwined.

There was a hollow  _bang_ , and the whole cabin violently shook. Light bled in through a narrow gap in the doorframe.

“John! Sherlock! Hello?”

They stared at each other in terror. The sound of voices and dogs barking lifted through the small space.

“Of course, I didn’t think ‘rescue by useless detective’ was ever going to occur…”

Lestrade called out to someone in the distance. “The fire is still burning, they must be here!”

“We should get dressed,” John said, legs wrapped about Sherlock’s middle.

“I bet you he’s wearing thermal underwear.” Sherlock caught John's eye, winked. Without warning, they burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. 

 

                                                                                                       ❅ ❅ ❅

                                                                 _  
_

❅ ❅ ❅


End file.
